


Causality's Harpists, Seventh Chair

by Ginger Jam (skylite), skylite



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/Ginger%20Jam, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/skylite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary Jane finds herself surrounded by loved ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Causality's Harpists, Seventh Chair

**Author's Note:**

> The recognizable characters appearing in this story are © 1997, 1998, 1999 2000 Marvel Comics, all rights reserved. They are used without permission, for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made by Indigo for writing, nor for archiving this story. No infringement upon nor challenge to the rights of the copyright holders is intended; nor should any be inferred. This story may not be reproduced without permission.

In all the books, they say the gates are pearly. I used to imagine them looking like the inside of an oyster shell -- all iridescent and shiny; glimmering with a pure, white holy light. In the movies, the gates are like great pillars of iron, floating impossibly on a platform of cottony clouds.

I never imagined that it'd look -- well, like the front door of the house Peter grew up in with his aunt. But it does. And streaming from the windows is that pure, white holy light.

I'm hoping this is Heaven. No, that's not true. I'm hoping this is the Way-Station like in that "Heaven Can Wait" movie -- I'm praying it's some mistake. I'm wishing and desperately hoping that some elegant oldster in a pristine white suit will tell me that there's been a clerical error ... someone forgot to carry a 1 or something.

I'm not supposed to be here.

I'm not supposed to be here.

I can't be here.

If I'm here ...

if this is Heaven...

Then I'm *dead*.

And I died with unfinished business; I died with regrets.

Oh, Peter, Peter, Peter. I regret leaving for the shoot without talking. I regret not waiting for you to come home. I know you would have.

I never got to tell you goodbye. I never got to tell you I was sorry.

I never got to tell you I love you.

"Hello, child."

The voice is kindly, gentle, and comforting. And male. "G-God?" I hear myself stammer.

"No, dear, no. Just someone who wishes he could've met you under different circumstances." Out of the white light comes a hand, reaching for mine.

I practically leap to take his hand -- and am brought up short. The face I see before me is full of affable charm -- crow's feet do nothing to take away the genuine sincerity and twinkle of those blue eyes. The hair is soft, snowy white, and there's the distinguished air of one who has aged gracefully about him. And after a second of staring dumbly, the brain kicks in. I know this face. I've seen it in photographs, and in the resemblance Peter has to it.

"Un-Uncle Ben...?"

"That's right, dear." He slings one arm protectively around my shoulder. "Come in, come in."

"Your house is Heaven?" I whisper, incredulous.

"Well, it's our little corner of it, Mary Jane. I asked for special dispensation to meet you here. Otherwise you'd have ended up processed with the other unfortunates of that plane crash. And none of us would've wanted that for you."

We step into the house and the living room is filled with people I recognize -- and I know, beyond the shadow of the doubt that I *am* dead.

Gwen Stacy, Peter's first love, smiles at me. "MJ. It's so good to see you!" She rushes to my side and flings her arms around me in an affectionate hug. I'm almost too startled to hug back -- but I've missed her too.

I recognize Jean De Wolffe from the paper; She, curled up on an armchair, nods politely to me over a cup of coffee. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Watson-Parker." Her tone is firm, but still friendly behind that almost stony face.

Harry Osborne glances up from the sofa. He smiles at me and squeezes my hand gently as Ben leads me to a chair. I can't help smiling through my shock -- he's whole and healthy now, his eyes clear and undeluded with that spark of madness he once had.

Ben pours me a cup of tea, and sets it down before me. Unthinking, I take a sip and discover it's exactly how I like it: weak with two sugars, dollop of cream. He pours himself a cup from the same pot, but it's strong and plain.

Ben clucks his tongue thoughtfully at my incredulity. "You'll adjust soon enough. You're a strong woman. You've dealt with the worst my nephew's world could throw at him. You loved him for who he is, even though it tore at your heartstrings. You stood by him, provided him with a beacon to find his way home, no matter how far his meanderings took him."

I blush and glance down. The clothes I was wearing only moments ago -- the designer dress and jacket that were burned beyond recognition -- have been replaced by a comfy old dress I thought I threw out before I married Peter.

There it is, then: incontrovertible proof that I am ...

...I'm...

...go on, MJ, say it...

...*dead*...

Before I even realize it, I have burst into tears. Ragged sobs tear at my throat, and my hands shake against my face. I feel Gwen and Harry embrace me gently, whispering gentle, soothing words to me.

Harry's hand gently strokes through my hair, and I look up at him. He meets my gaze, smiling benevolently. I flash back to Peter telling me that Norman had gone insane. I remember the pain on Peter's face from when he told me how Gwen had died ... and immediately I feel guilty. "S-Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about, MJ. These things happen. And you shouldn't have to face it all alone." Gwen's smile is exactly as I remembered it.

"Besides which," a new voice adds, "You'll find certain things make more sense now."

I turn immediately; it sounds just like Peter! Then it hits me; the inflection and cadence of the words are different. The face, however, isn't. Ben Reilly smiles warmly at me. "Been a while, MJ."

I rush into his arms and begin sobbing anew; but Ben simply holds me and strokes my hair until I can pull myself together again. "There's something I need to show you when you're up to it."

"I'm not sure I can take any more shocks," I tell him honestly. "First the plane explodes, now this -- and you..." I shake my head then hurriedly add, "I'm *glad* to see you, but...but..."

"But this is all so sudden," DeWolffe offers. "But you had so many things you wanted to do, right?"

"That's true for us all, hon," Gwen adds, "But that's taken into account as best it can be."

I look puzzled, and DeWolffe pulls off her trenchcoat. That holy white light seeps out from the lining of the coat as she unbuttons it, and a pair of wings unfurl behind her, spreading out to either side of her. The feathers are white with gold and blue shimmer in them, and I can only catch my breath; she's beautiful. A halo encircles her head, with a badge-shaped segment in front. She's like a stained glass votive, lit from within.

"You're an angel?" I whisper, distantly realizing how inane and stupid I must sound, but DeWolffe nods.

"We all are. Guardian angels, to be precise."

"And," Ben adds, gently beeping my nose, "You have had a good word put in for you. Soon as we realized the plane wasn't going to make it, we asked for you to be posted here." He takes off his jacket, and his wings spring free. The halo on his head bears the sigil of the spider.

I smile gratefully. "Thank you. It's almost like having a real family again." And that's the truth; spoken straight from the bottom of my heart. Or whatever passes for one.

I feel a warmth around my shoulders and turn; Ben's wing has enfolded me. His halo is blued faintly; perhaps sadness at having missed his nephew's life.

The room lights up with the warmth of their smiles. They were apparently worried I wouldn't have been able to make the adjustment. But I've faced worse than the prospect of departed loved ones being guardian angels. I've been buried alive, and believed my husband dead. "Who do you all guard?" I ask, attempting to follow the old 'When in Rome' adage.

"Who else?" Ben asks, laughter in his eyes. He slides aside a sculpture by Alicia Masters, and behind it is a window that looks more like a pool of water hanging suspended vertically in space. Before me, it ripples as though someone had dropped a smooth pebble into its center. When the ripples fade, however, the room is flicker-lit by an image.

Images of The Amazing Spider-Man...which slowly resolve...into...

My husband.

Peter.

He is sitting on the sofa, being fussed over by his aunt May. He looks terrible: his hazel eyes are sunken in from lack of sleep, and that face I so love is covered by a shadow that has seen several days of five o'clock. His clothing is rumpled and disheveled, and May hovers above him like a worried hummingbird.

I can see, even from here, that he's barely paying attention to the scrawny teenager who's come calling to pay her respects, even though he's assured May that she's no threat.

Tears well in my eyes again. Dear God, I miss him so already. It feels like I left half my soul with him. He looks like I took half his soul with me.

I'm so transfixed, watching my beloved Peter in the shimmering pool-portal, that it's several minutes before I realize Gwen is speaking to me.

"...we were the ones who made sure."

"Hmm?" I tear my eyes from the screen to look at them again.

"Remember when he was framed for murder?" the younger Ben asks me. "When he had to adopt those identities? Who do you think pulled the occasional causality string so he could find the evidence that would clear his name?"

Harry looks vaguely pained and sheepish at Ben's words, and I recall it was his father Norman who tried to destroy Spider-Man and Peter both with the murder rap having been only one of a dozen attempts. Remorse is practically resonating from Harry like a dischordant note. He's wrapped his wings around him as though he's suddenly grown cold.

"Causality string?" I repeat, sensing something odd in that phrase.

"Yeah," DeWolffe continues as the younger Ben smiles politely and excuses himself from the room. "See, it's all part of the Plan. Spider-Man, even though he doesn't think terribly much of his own efforts -- is a *neccessary* fulcrum in the balance of good vs. evil. He inspires others."

"See this little slip of a girl here?" Uncle Ben gestures at the liquid portal. "Her name's Mattie Franklin. She's all of fifteen, and took her father's place in the Gathering of the Five Ceremony. With the power she got from that, she took first the name of Spider-Man, then became the third Spider-Woman."

The image ripples before me, and changes to a white-haired boy of maybe sixteen, staring thoughtfully out his window. He turns and glances at his bed. Across it is lain an outfit I recognize. I should; it's one I helped Peter make when he couldn't be the Spider.

"That's Ricochet," I breathe. I remember Peter telling me he'd seen around the city people wearing the four costumes he'd worn during his identity crisis. But the four costumes were in a trunk in the attic of May's old house.

Another image shows me the Rocket Racer. Peter inspired him to become a good guy, and even after being beaten down and having his board stolen -- he hasn't given up.

I wish I had only realized -- crimefighting and swinging are in Peter's blood. He loves them as much as he loves me, and I should've realized it. If I'd only seen it sooner, I could be kissing him now -- holding him now.

I was afraid being Spider-Man would kill him, and I'd lose him. Instead I'm here, watching him grieve, watching him try to make sense out of my senseless death. Instead, he's lost me.

Oh, Peter. I'm going to miss you so.

Images flicker on the screen before me -- visions of Peter's life as the Spider undulate through the liquid vision. Now -- from here -- I can see how terrified he is, going up against the Juggernaut. I can feel his fear and rage as he faces the Green Goblin. I can almost feel the wry amusement he gets, rescuing a child from a burning building but still finding himself greeted with derision, hatred, and the sort of apathy that only New Yorkers can manage.

I had no idea it was like this for him.

Then, the images show him just -- swingin'. Enjoying the result that a strange twist of fate had on him. He revels in being Spider-Man because it makes him the man he wanted to be. But he is Spider-Man because he knows that his city needs a hero -- even if he's a hero they won't thank. And inside him, I can see it with my new divinely granted vision -- there is a part of him that will always regret a time when he did not believe the great powers he was granted also came with a great responsibility to use them for the greater good.

Another image lights before me and I instinctively recoil back into Uncle Ben's safe, warm embrace. The creature that once was a man named Eddie Brock ...but now calls itself Venom ... sits brooding on a rooftop. And now I can see what the people gathered here meant by 'causality strings.' There's a tiny shimmering golden thread leading from where Venom's heart should be -- up into the sky.

"That thread there," Jean tells me proudly, "Is the one that frayed just slightly. He no longer remmbers that Peter Parker *is* Spider-Man. It would be changing too much to erase his hatred of the webslinger, but at least his civilian identity is safe again." Jean steps aside and shows me a wall with what looks like a thousand threads. She plucks one on the wall and it gives off a pure, clear note like a harp. In the image, it resonates into Venom, and he leaps off the rooftop, in search of Carnage -- the creature he had a hand in birthing. "There. One less thing to worry Spidey about in his time of mourning."

"You're all his guardian angels," I whisper, awed.

"And now," Ben says, "So are you. Every loved one he loses is one more to look after him. One more angel to sit on his shoulder and make sure he lives to swing again."

Gwen's arm is around me and gently nudges me to turn. "We have a surprise for you, Mary Jane."

"Meet our littlest angel."

In Ben's arms, wrapped in a blanket that mimicked the Spider-Man costume except in gold and white instead of red and blue -- was a little baby with a shock of red hair, and dancing hazel eyes.

I feel my knees go weak. "May?" My baby? My baby!

Ben's inhuman speed, so much like Peter's, catches me before I can even see him move. "Your baby," he confirms, handing the infant to me.

She smiles instantly, and I can feel the tinybabythoughts like a sprinkle of warm droplets on my face. In my heart.

"Can we have a moment alone, please?" I ask.

"Of course," Uncle Ben answers. "You just call when you're ready." And one by one they file out, through the walls, leaving only the faintest affectionate hint of their presence lingering around me -- reminding me that I'm not alone, and neither is Peter.

I lift my little girl's tiny hand to the liquid screen--on her father's face, and lean in to place a kiss on Peter's cheek. "Goodbye, Tiger," I whisper. "I never got the chance to tell you but it wasn't you who hit the jackpot.

"It was *me.*"

To my astonishment, Peter's eyes widen and his hand goes to his cheek. And the weight of grief seems to lift from him slightly.

"We'll be watching," I promise him. "I love you."

I step away from the screen; missing him is an ache inside me. I open my mouth to call out, but the others, sensing my 'moment' finished, return to embrace me. Gwen, Ben, Uncle Ben, Harry, Jean. I can feel them becoming part of me, and I a part of them. It's a peaceful feeling. I feel stronger having them beside me.

I may not have my wings or my halo yet, but I am among family. My daughter is back in my arms. We are legion, and we are love. Through us, Spider-Man has a cheering section he'll never see.

And though I'm not with Peter -- and won't be until his work is done -- I'm home.


End file.
